


Fomorroh

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Era, Dark Magic, Dark Merlin (Merlin), Episode: s04e06 A Servant of Two Masters, F/M, Mind Control, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Objectification, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Revenge, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24894013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After Merlin kills the Fomorroh, he returns and enslaves Morgana with his own.
Relationships: Merlin/Morgana (Merlin)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 64





	Fomorroh

He sealed the Fomorroh into her neck as soon as he had confessed. She screamed as he had screamed; writhed as he had writhed. Morgana yanked against the restraints as he had – as though freedom would stop the agony knifing through her body and reshaping her brain.

Then she hung limp. The flesh on the back of her neck knit the creature in place. The orders that Merlin had given her were immovable, now.

He had thought about forcing her to forgive. To forgive him, to forgive Arthur, to forgive herself. Arthur would want her back at court, if she were bound inextricably to Merlin’s will. But then she would be there as a constant reminder of his guilt; another person to visit and speak to who was too broken to respond, and Merlin would not wish that upon his king. She was to be his secret and this hovel was to be their home.

Instead, he forced her to be happy – because all she had to do was what he desired. The dark magic with which she had enslaved him was now enslaving her. She knew this, and she couldn’t mind, because she was happy. And she knew such treatment was warranted.

He unbound her hair and lay her on the bed. His eyes glowed gold and the hovel righted itself, broken jars and stinking powders and scattered coins and artefacts soaring to their rightful place. The Fommoroh he had summoned hid itself in a world of its own, a mere thought away should he need it again.

Outside in the woods he turned and cast a final, crackling spell over the hovel. Even her loyal lapdog Agravaine wouldn't be able to find her now.

༻♔༺

The first thing Merlin did when he returned was give her a gift.

“It suits you,” Merlin said of the amulet, and Morgana was mesmerised by how the light glimmered on the amber jewel when he tilted her wrist from side to side. “And Arthur has no need of it anymore. I summoned it from where it fell, and just as it tried to drain Arthur of his life, it’s drained you of your powers.”

She seemed not to understand. “You have good taste,” she said. Her free hand traced the wings carved into the silver.

“You must wear it always.”

She nodded. The Fomorroh twitched in her neck, assimilating the command, and a small smile drifted across her face.

“I shall.”

“Good.” Merlin tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, but Morgana was too captivated by her prize to notice. “I’m going to draw you a bath, and you’ll bathe and go to bed. You must be tired.”

The bath he filled with a flick of his wrist; a pot of herbs he set to smoke and burn, their vapours filling the air. And when he returned later in the night she was naked aside from the amulet on her bed and so wet that he slid inside her noiselessly. He felt her clench around him as though she could pull him deeper and their breath shuddered out of their chests in unison, but he stroked a hand along the curve of her waist and she settled.

He made love to her thrice and even in sleep she knew to be happy. She wasn’t roused by him, but she was aroused – quietly so, all yielding whimpers and hitched breath. Maybe he regretted taking her fire away, but it was easier for her now. Easier for them both. Easier for Arthur, even, now that Merlin could vent his fury elsewhere and return mollified and steadied to court.

Morgana sighed each time he came inside her, as though his rough rhythm was a distant, floating song, and the hand curled around her neck was a blessing.

༻♔༺

He left the memory in her mind as a dream, half-formed but distinct enough for her to dwell on it. On later visits he plied her with more gifts: her old dresses, flowers he told her he’d picked from the meadow, handheld mirrors in ornate gold, and countless pretty trinkets, and she was happy because she had been told she was. The life Merlin offered her was one that glittered. He wanted her to swim in a stupid, irresistible bliss at his hands, and each gift only intensified her belief that that feeling came from him alone.

Merlin had banished the rage and fury of her past. It was dull to her now; it held no sway, not when bejewelled knives and sparkling sapphire brooches and rubies the size of eggs made her mind melt into rapture. Morgana remembered only vaguely what she had done to him, and that she had been punished for it – deservedly so – and that Merlin had not chosen revenge. He had chosen generosity, and her little horde was her happy reminder that her obedience was to thank him for his mercy.

After his stolen nights he wanted to claim her anew, so he did. He found her in an old silvery gown with jewelled beads in her hair, draping heavy pendants around her neck, and Morgana melted under his hands until she bucked under him like a mare.

“We must do that again,” she said afterwards, and her eyes were so beautifully blank that Merlin had allowed it.

༻♔༺

Before long the hovel was overflowing with gold and silver and jewels instead of the implements of witchcraft, and she sewed or painted or read smuggled books giddily in her splendid, sparkling universe.

One day Merlin had allowed his eyes to shine gold, and she rode him as though those two gold doubloons were the only things she wanted in the world. Her body he fitted with gold bars and bejewelled studs where he saw fit, and he trained it to feel jolts of pleasure whenever they were touched. She didn’t seem to mind that some of them pressed the sleek lines of her dresses out of shape, or that the silk was stained with her wetness. Sometimes she played with herself like a trinket, now – brushing cold metal where she could find it in her skin.

Morgana was no troll like Catrina, but oh, Merlin made her crave pretty things. Sumptuous silk to ruin with her heat; smooth, egg-shaped jewels that she inserted into herself; velvet hangings to be taken against. Yet despite all her presents, she always answered best to the gold in his eyes, swimming in the sheets like a rare catch he had hauled out of water.

Little did she know that her kisses left him cold. Merlin's devotion stemmed from his certainty that he had defeated her – that Camelot was safe, that Arthur was safe, that she was his and his alone. Morgana was a broken woman, but broken as he had seen fit. When he raged he denied her release, had it wither away to nothing and she would sob and thrash and he would flick absentmindedly at the bar in her nipple and she would not shudder under him and then she would howl.

She had no choice but to forgive him, though, because she had wronged him first.

༻♔༺

Morgana was bound anew to the ceiling when he woke her almost a year later. Her eyes cracked open, blearily taking in her naked body and its new adornments. Then her eyes fell on Merlin’s boots, and her head snapped upwards.

“ _Emrys_.” The word was muffled by the neckerchief he’d gagged her with, but there could be no other reaction to his face – hers was already wild and twisted and Morgana reached for her magic but the amulet still wrapped around her wrist glowed gold instead of her eyes. A sob-hiss vanished into her gag. Had she not been bound, she would have crumpled to the ground; instead, pain shot into her shoulders when her knees buckled under her.

Merlin had missed Morgana’s fire – for all the warring hate and fear on her face, she was still beautiful when possessed with it. She righted herself with a whimper and twisted as best she could to take in her home. All her silly trinkets glinted cruelly in the gloom and taunted her – dull, fickle _things_ instead of the shivers of happiness she remembered them being – and her breath was already heavy with fury before she swung back to face him. But there was nothing as exquisite as Morgana’s fire extinguished, and when Merlin’s hand shot out and flicked the bar in her nipple and her body spasmed on unforgotten instinct, he relished how her snarl belied the sudden darkening of her eyes.

“I’ve fucked you a thousand times for what you did to me.” Merlin twisted the bar long enough for her to let out a drawn-out, pained groan that the neckerchief struggled to silence. He waited until her thighs glistened and the fury in her eyes misted over with arousal she did not want before he withdrew his hand. “What you did to Arthur.”

Even the name is enough for Morgana’s eyes to narrow to slits, but Merlin turned away from her – towards the Fomorroh.

“I took over your mind like you stole mine.” He picked up a bloodied knife and waved it at the immobile, bloodied Fomorroh’s head on the table. “But a Fomorroh has seven heads, and I’ve only used one so far. More than seven, if I summon a new beast. And I will.”

Merlin closed his eyes for a moment. He needed to take in his simmering anger and her sobs of rage and the creaking of the bonds around her wrists, and when he went on his voice was a low snarl.

“The power of a High Priestess is nothing compared to mine – to free myself I killed your Fomorroh, but to enslave you, I have the power to neutralise each head when I see fit.” He studied the smear of blood on the blade and set it on the table. “I don’t care to let them regrow in your neck – my plans for you are everchanging.”

Merlin whirled on her, then, and seized her face in his hands. Even now Morgana was unbowed enough to glare at him, even now her body shook and her breath was pulled too fast from her.

“Do you have any requests?” Merlin snapped her head to the side and prowled behind her to examine the wound at the nape of her neck. “If I left you here my first head would regrow in your neck in less than an hour, and you’d be mindless again – drowning in euphoria with all your precious trophies.” His breath was too close to the incision and she whimpered. “You’d trust me unconditionally. Or I could force you to be a dog. You’d probably like that. Or I’d fill your head with memories of atrocities you’d never committed. Convince you you’re dead. Have you return to Camelot and fuck every knight there and gain no release from it. You’d do _whatever I want_.” His breath, hot and rattling, made her twist away from him and the glimmer of tears on her cheeks only deepened the bitterness in his gut. “I could have you forgive your brother – forgive me.”

Morgana shrank away when Merlin’s hand fell on her shoulder but he slipped in front of her again.

“For now, you still have some use to me – as more than a dumb whore.” Now she was a spiteful portrait of fire and darkness and white, soft skin that he itched to tame, and he ran a knuckle down her sternum absentmindedly. “Agravaine is corrupting Arthur. He is standing in the way of a united Albion. You’re going to summon that sycophant of yours, and you’re going to kill him.”

Any protest was lost in the gag. The rage in her had not abated – only merged with terror that she was failing to hide, and Merlin wished, suddenly, that he’d awoken her bedecked in all her finery; then she would have been even more humiliated.

“Don’t bother getting rid of all your pretty things. It doesn’t matter what he thinks – it only matters that he dies at your hand. A knife through the heart will suffice.”

Morgana’s face was bloodless by now, and his voice dulled and slowed when went on.

“And when that’s done, you will take credit for the deed. I don’t care how – all that matters is that Arthur thinks it was you.” Idly, he swept away some of her tears. “Then you will return here to your hovel, restrain yourself, and wait for me to return and replace the Fomorroh in your neck. And the longer you wait, the happier you’ll feel. The more you’ll yearn for it.” His hand drifted to her throat and traced the pounding of her jugular. “I needn’t tell you I’ll be days. Maybe weeks. I expect you to beg when I deign to reclaim you.”

Something in Morgana snapped. She shrieked into the gag – not once, not twice, but endlessly, until her fire was ablaze in a way that heralded embers.

“You understand?”

She would never assent, and he shrugged. “It’s no matter.” He sliced the second head from the Fomorroh and moved behind her. With a tug he let his neckerchief fall away from her mouth and her cries surged into the hovel. Unheeding, Merlin pressed the Fomorroh into her wound. His free hand slipped between her legs. “You’re mine whatever happens.”


End file.
